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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018190">rock n roll is here to stay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland'>peterpan_in_neverland</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lyrically inclined [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Never Have I Ever (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Light Angst, Post canon, based off of the song "Thirteen" by Big Star, loose interpretation of a what are we fic, part of the lyrically inclined series, this is pathetically short and pathetically poorly written</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“If there was a way, you’d find it,” he tells her, joking dripping from his voice, light and syrupy, like caramel. </p><p>“That’s because I’m ingenuitive.” </p><p>“Right.” </p><p>“A change maker.” </p><p>“Totally.” </p><p>“Trend setting and genius,” she says, and he laughs, boyish, familiar and Ben-like disapproval, “I’m America's sweetheart.” </p><p>“In every sense of the phrase, David.”</p><p>OR; in which Devi considers Ben and herself</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lyrically inclined [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>rock n roll is here to stay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasize/gifts">fantasize</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi!</p><p>I'm finally doing a lyrically inclined fic that isnt Taylor Swift... a miracle (don't think about the fact that the next two I'm planning are both Taylor Swift songs).</p><p>A few things:</p><p>(1) This is my least planned fic to date</p><p>(2) It's short and definitely out of character</p><p>(3) This is the most that I have had to edit the lyrics to fit in with the flow and the dialogue. People just... do not speak this way outside of Shakespeare and music</p><p>(4) I am dedicating this to one of the sweetest commenters on my fics. I hope you enjoy it, my dear &lt;3</p><p>I hope you enjoy, and if you do, please leave a kudos and a comment, as I would really, rally appreciate it. Thank you all SO much.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You are… actually insufferable,” Devi says, light teasing, looking at him over the tips of her shoes. She is slouched down in one of the couches in the student center of the high school, her feet up on a coffee table and her laptop notched snugly against her hips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You just can’t handle how sufferable I am,” he says, not even sparing her a glance as he types quickly on his computer, fingers dancing over the keyboard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not really a compliment,” she says back, wearing a joking smile that pulls her lips towards her teeth, “it’s like… an honest assessment.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“More honest than my insufferability?” he says back, looking up from his laptop, just for a moment, before rolling his eyes and saying, “that can </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be comfortable, David.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sinks lower into the couch, and she is almost parallel with the coffee table when he looks back up at her and snorts. “It’s extremely comfortable, Ben.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You sit on a throne of lies,” he says back, words spinning on a merry go round of laughter, “or, really, you lie on it, I guess.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t really lie down on a throne,” she tells him, straightening up and feeling the vertebrae at the base of her spine sigh in relief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If there was a way, you’d find it,” he tells her, joking dripping from his voice, light and syrupy, like caramel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s because I’m ingenuitive.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Right.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A change maker.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Totally.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Trend setting and genius,” she says, and he laughs, boyish, familiar and Ben-like disapproval, “I’m America's sweetheart.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In every sense of the phrase, David.” He gets quiet, then, and so does she, and it feels like the heart deep tug of war of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are we </span>
  </em>
  <span>restarts inside of her bones. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She misses everything about kissing him, the forward momentum and equilibrium. She does not think she will </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>stop wanting it, like unstoppable force meets immovable object, and it sets her teeth on edge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He scratches at his cheek, fingernails against stubble, and traces a line down his jaw with one finger. She wants to follow the path with her lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“Let me walk you home from school,” </b>
  <span>she says, before she has a chance to think it through, and he looks up at her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is this way that Ben looks at her, like— like he is seeing fire for the first time, like he is watching the sunrise in technicolour, like he is breaking his hand through a rainbow— and it overwhelms her so wholly that she cannot even gather the impetus to look away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says back, without any hint of argument, no breadcrumbs scattered on a trail to destruction, and she nods, and falls back into herself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pushes herself back down on the couch until her neck whines in protest of the angle.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels a little lucky, now that she is meandering down the sidewalk with him, that he had failed his driver's test a week ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had been equal parts irritating and amusing at first, joking about him clipping a curb in the last turn and earning a disappointed smile and nothing else from the practitioner, before realizing, dejectedly, that he would not be able to drive her home from school like he had promised.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has walked to his house before, hands deep in the pockets of her cardigan, fingers toying with candy wrappers and loose threads and while it’s familiar, the cracks in the sidewalks and small spray paint murals wearing away at the edges, the sound of his footfalls next to her is new. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not unpleasant. New. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wraps a hand around the heat sticky pole of a stop sign and spins around it, just for the gravitational free fall of motion. “Do you ever think about Tantalus?” she asks, mostly to fill the silence. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tantalus,” she repeats, scuffing some kids smiling sidewalk chalk strawberry, and immediately feeling bad about it, “Tantalean punishments. Everything good, just out of reach.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you rereading </span>
  <em>
    <span>Percy Jackson, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or something?” he asks, cutting in front of her as they walk up his driveway, tugging his keys from his back pocket. He has a pickle with a face on it hanging from the key loop. Weird. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Never mind,” she says, watching him fidget. He is sliding his index finger over the ridges on each of his keys, watching the skin turn barbie doll yellow with the pressure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, you walked me home,” he says, barely looking up at her, discomfort in his shoulders, and his eyes catch hers, and suddenly she is made of butterflies, “why?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is looking at her like-like that again, like she is a cloud made of lightning, and every single one of her restraints snaps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She slants into him, a girlish sigh trapped between their lips collided, her body leaning into his, like parallel lines that were never meant to meet, like they are the exception to the rule. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Devi,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he groans out, choked and guttural, and she presses polish chipped fingernails into the back of his neck. “What—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not doing it,” she whispers, pulling his keys from his hands and sliding them into the lock, tracing her lips along his jaw, the way she had wanted to earlier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not doing what?” He pushes the door open, stumbling backwards into his foyer, and breaking away from her, closing the door again. Her skin hums in protest. He grabs her hips, though, spinning her around and pushing her back against the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The end of the handle bites into her thigh, but she cannot be angry when he leans down and kisses her hard, stealing her breath and her fight— all the spitfire, punches thrown irritation— from her with his lips, and she dances her fingers up his arms and into his hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tilts, trying to kiss him harder, to rob him of oxygen, when he catches her bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, sharp pain that thrills her, and she keens, reedy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What aren’t you doing?” he asks, scraping his teeth— hard, blotching her skin red— against the line of her jaw, lips catching at her earlobe before he kisses the soft skin behind her ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she gasps, tilting her head to the side and gracing her fingers down his neck, “are-aren’t doing what?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said you’re not doing it,” he traces his tongue along the shell of her ear, warm, and her blood swirls, “what aren’t you doing?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A what are we,” she answers, and his lips wreck havoc on her neck, “I won’t do it. We-We are what we are.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He licks a thin stripe up the tendon in her neck, summoning goosebumps and full body shivers. “Friends who kiss each other?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine by me, Gross,” she says back, hooking her fingers into his belt loops, pressing his hips flush to hers. “Maybe it’ll finally get you to admit I’m better than you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He chuckles, and pulls a few of the snap buttons on her blouse, kissing directly in the center of her chest. She gasps at the drag of his stubble. “Not likely, David.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>They make fun of homecoming for three days before Devi notices Ben’s demeanor has changed. He gets prickly, like a cat pet the wrong way, and her jokes about homecoming fall flat like dominoes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is doing her calculus homework on Ben’s bedroom floor, plush carpeting pressed against her stomach, when he says, “so, I was thinking that </span>
  <b>maybe Friday I can get tickets for the dance.” </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pushes herself to her knees, sitting up to look at him, incredulous. “Like… for homecoming?” she asks, voice wobbly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he answers, nods, taps his pencil against his notebook. “Eleanor seems excited for it, I don’t know, it just sounds like it could be fun, y’know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says, heavy disappointment. He wants to go with Eleanor? Is that what he is saying? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I kind of want to go—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“— are you gonna ask someone?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“— and I’ll take you?” </b>
  <span>he asks, a statement presented like a question. Her heartbeat falters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She opens her mouth, then closes it, and goes fishing for an excuse. She wants to go with him, though, and that scares her more than the idea that she probably should not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My mom probably wouldn’t let me,” she says, which is a blatant, bold italic underlined lie. Nalini would let her, would pretend to put up a fight, even, just to make Devi feel better when she inevitably gave it. Permission to go almost anywhere with Ben is a general guarantee, as paradoxical as it seems.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says, dejected, and presses the tip of his pencil against his notebook until it breaks, “you can’t even ask her?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s kind of mad at me, right now,” she answers, the tips of her ears glowing red. She starts a tally of all the lies she tells him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why </span>
  <b>won’t you tell her to get off your back?” </b>
  <span>Ben asks, malice dripping from the syllables.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ben.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he says, immediate, and scrubs a hand over his face, groaning into his palm, “sorry.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to forget you asked?” she whispers, writes </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>on her notebook, and hopes he says the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Probably better.” An incomplete sentence for an incomplete answer. “It would probably tiptoe too far on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are we </span>
  </em>
  <span>line, anyway.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She catches her bottom lip in between her teeth, scratches out the lines in the tally, and tries not to think about the other lines she wants to erase.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Devi?” Rebecca wrinkles her nose and turns the corners of her lips flat. “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t really know,” she answers, and Rebecca rolls her eyes, pulling a hand through her hair, bleach blonde strands catching in the bandaids wrapped around her fingers. She always has little cuts and pokes above the first knuckle on her fingers, sewing machine casualties, and Devi had bought her a pack of Hello Kitty themed bandages. “I kind of messed up.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t be here to talk if you hadn’t,” Rebecca says, and it feels like an unnecessary jab. It makes the hair on her neck stand up, skin hot. She had retained her friendship with Rebecca after breaking up with Paxton eight months after she had started dating him, and it had never felt fraught, or even unnatural, to sit on Rebecca's bedroom floor with board games, or to model her newest designs for school, and everything had always felt good. It had never felt like this— accusatory, like there is blame to be thrown, accusations to be leveled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wow, Rebecca, okay.” She takes a step backwards, and Rebecca’s face falls. She shakes her head, pushing out her bottom lip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I didn’t mean it like— I’m sorry, okay? Paxton’s just been in a mood and I’ve been tough loving him and I haven’t really… gotten it out of my system,” she sighs, and shakes her head again. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad to see you, actually. I’ve missed you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Devi smiles, lips tilting up, and shoves her hands in her pockets. Rebecca— her Rebecca, the sassy, tough love Rebecca— is back. “Did you call him a douche again?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Two times a day, like clockwork, morning and night,” Rebecca answers, shrugging, a smile that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>mischief,</span>
  </em>
  <span> “like brushing your teeth. It’s necessary.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I'm glad you’re keeping him in line,” Devi says with a smile, falsely bright, and drums her fingers against her thighs, inside of her pockets, “anyway, um… I kind of messed up and I didn’t want to go home and not talk to my mom about it, so—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“Come inside,” </b>
  <span>Rebecca says, stepping to the side and letting Devi in, pointing to the shoe rack, </span>
  <b>“where it’s okay </b>
  <span>to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be okay.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay for me to not be okay at my home,” Devi says back, frowning, her bottom lip pushed out, and toeing her shoes off, kicking them against the wall, “I just… didn’t feel like not being okay at home. I like being not okay at other places, where I can't be told to do the ironing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Talk to me, Devi.” Rebecca putters around the kitchen while Devi leans against the island, body slanted like a back slash, and she taps her fingernails against the faux granite. “And be aware, I may tell you to do my ironing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t even know where to start,” Devi tells her, ignoring the veiled threat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rebecca looks up at her over a pitcher of water, suspicious. “Generally, people tend to start at the beginning.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, the beginning differs, depending on who you ask, but… I’m pretty sure you’re Adam and Eve people.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t what I meant and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.” Rebecca pours a cup of Country Time lemonade mix into the pitcher, stirring it up. Devi knows that Cameron does not approve— he is a chef at a fancy restaurant forty five minutes away from Sherman Oaks, and therefore prefers fresh lemonade— but Rebecca has been obsessed with artificial lemonade for as long as Devi has known her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ben and I are kind of, like, together but also… not.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God,” Rebecca groans, “I’m gonna have to spike this.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you try to get drunk and then give me advice, I will call Cameron and then leave.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have Cameron’s phone number,” Rebecca says, all confidence, passing a glass of lemonade to Devi after pouring her own, and setting the rest in the fridge. “And he’s at work, anyway, so he won’t answer.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Does he answer you when you call him at work?” Devi asks, out of curiosity more than anything else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Rebecca answers, immediately, arching an eyebrow, “I’m special.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That implies that I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>special.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not to Cameron,” Rebecca answers, blunt, sipping from her lemonade, before pulling herself up to sit on the kitchen counter. “Tell me what’s going on with Ben.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He kissed me last year,” Devi says, and Rebecca's eyebrows disappear within her bangs. “And, I don’t know, we’ve been friends since then, but I sort of—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Accosted him?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Devi narrows her eyes. “Kissed him.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Accosted him with your mouth,” Rebecca says, and nods, once, like she is locking down the detail, scribbling it onto a mental notepad, like a detective during an interrogation. Devi feels as though she should be asking for a lawyer. “Got it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And I told him I didn’t want to do a whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are we </span>
  </em>
  <span>situation—” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bad call.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to let me tell the story, or are you going to keep interrupting me?” Devi asks, irritation heavy on her skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Potentially, a little of both.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop interrupting, or I walk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think you should put more stock into your ability to be a lawyer,” Rebecca says, drumming her fingers against her knees, “I mean… you can negotiate efficiently.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will you be quiet?” Devi asks, skirting the compliment. She is mostly certain it is some kind of entrapment, anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, we’ve been just hanging out, but also kissing. A lot. And not talking about it. But, he asked me to go to homecoming with him, and I said no, but I didn’t want to say no, and I just… I don’t know,” Devi finishes, and looks up at Rebecca to find her holding her breath, her face glowing pink with concentration and oxygen deprivation. Devi laughs, in spite of herself and her turmoil. “You can talk now, y’know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lets out the breath in a heave. “Oh, thank God.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hold your breath,” Devi points out, trailing the pads of her fingers along the rim of her lemonade glass. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was the only way this could have worked,” Rebecca says, and turns around, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from her cupboard and splashing some into her lemonade. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God,” Devi says, wrinkling her nose, “that can </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s disgusting,” Rebecca answers, grimacing, after taking a sip, “but I don’t know how else to get through… this.” She waves her hand in a circle when she says it, like a judge on </span>
  <em>
    <span>America's Next Top Model </span>
  </em>
  <span>preparing to roast a contestant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This really isn’t that bad, Rebecca.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not being reasonable about it,” Rebecca says, “you need to sit down with yourself and think about what you want.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Devi huffs, and taps her fingernails against her glass, swallows her pride and admits, “what if I want more, and he doesn’t want the same thing?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then you need to move on,” Rebecca says, then sighs, taking another stomach churning sip, “but, if he asked you to homecoming, then he probably wants more, too.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Moving on from Ben is not a possibility. He’s too… too </span>
  <em>
    <span>much. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All encompassing and steady and permanent, a gravitational pull like the moon, and she is tidally locked into him. They have already altered their dynamic, changing things and blurring lines and biting bottom lips and the thought of recoiling, setting everything back to the beginning and pushing him away, blotting out the moon and struggling against the tides, makes heat and fight burn to life on her skin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pushes it away, like everything else. “You think he might want more?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one who asked </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Rebecca restates, loving annoyance tugging on the words, “and you’re the one who turned him down. You have to realize how that would seem to him, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Devi says, less under her breath and more out loud, to open air, “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>stupid, aren’t I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, considering it's you and I in a room…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rude, Rebecca, just rude.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m the one with a high school diploma from a school for gifted kids, so, I wouldn’t fight me on this,” Rebecca says, shrugging, “any other time, we’re equally smart, but right now, you’re acting like a fool.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Next time, I’m just gonna call Cameron,” Devi grumbles, narrowing her eyes at Rebecca, “I bet he’s nicer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rebecca snorts. “Yeah, but he would put me on the phone, anyway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I hate that you’re right.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Devi’s shoes are biting into the skin at the back of her heels, rubbing red marks into her skin and making her hide winces behind dark lipstick and neon lighting. She knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she will end up pulling her heels off and discarding them under a table, but she will not let go of the chance to relish in standing an extra few inches above Ben’s eyeline. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had not told him she was coming tonight, and she knows that they probably will not match— she wore deep blue, for a change, considering her last formal outfit had been a shade of red that made Ben's eyes lose focus— but she cannot make herself care, not when she catches sight of him leaning heavy against a wall, a book sandwiched between his hands. He is keeping track of his place in the book with one of his fingers, a pen notched against his thumb. He is underlining what he likes, the way he always does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She smiles, and walks over to him, tucking herself against the wall and pushing a hand in between his book and his eyes. “What the—” he starts, snapping the book closed and looking at her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Devi?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he finishes, smile blooming. She loves the way he smiles, his lips curling up at the corners, slowly, like he thinks through the action every time, activating each muscle separately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Gross,” she says, nonchalance, “gotta admit, I didn't really think this would be your scene.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you think my scene is?” he asks, still smiling, electric, like he is more than happy to play along.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Country clubs, cocktail parties,” she answers, on a shrug, “the Met Gala, even.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d take you with me to the Met Gala,” he says, and she barely has time to let out a surprised </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>before he is kissing her. Warm and slow and glazed over, like honey, and he holds her face like it is something precious, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>is something precious. “What are you doing here?” he finally whispers, against her lips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to surprise you.” She pulls away from him, and he frowns, and chases her lips for a moment, before catching himself. It makes her flush red, and she hopes against hope that it is too dark in the room for him to see. “Did it work?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Usually, you’re incapable of one upping me, David, but this time I am really, really surprised.” He scores his thumb across her cheekbone. “You look really beautiful.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Always knew you were obsessed with me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wish, David,” he says, and seems to realize he has been holding onto her too long, and lets his hand drop. She catches it, though, and pulls his knuckles to her lips, kissing each one of them, slowly. “What-What was that for?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to,” she whispers, and turns his hand around, studying his palm, tracing a finger over the creases, </span>
  <b>“won't you tell me what you’re thinking of?” </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right now I’m-I’m thinking something along the lines of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the hell is going on, </span>
  </em>
  <span>actually.” His voice is shaky, willow branch unsteady, and she skates her fingers up the inside of his wrist, dipping under his tuxedo sleeve. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you like me?” she asks, and immediately feels blushy and girly, like she should still be using Lisa Frank unicorn folders to hold her homework, “because I like you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You like me?” he asks, playing leapfrog with the question. “Like, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” She kisses the inside of his wrist to distract herself from the tingly nerves. “Yeah, I like you a lot, Ben.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has started, already, lips unlocked, and she does not think she will ever stop. “I really, really like you. And I love you a little bit, a lot. It was probably inevitable, but I do, and I know I’ve been mean and vague and probably crossed a lot of lines, but I’d commit felonies for you. I’d be an outlaw for you— </span>
  <b>would you be an outlaw for my love?” </b>
  <span>She hates it, just a little bit, that it came out like-like that, wanton and pleading and desperate, so she adds, “it’s okay to say no.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He blinks, hard, like he has just woken up, just broken the turbulent surface of the ocean, and says, “we need to get out of here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her heart deflates. “Oh, okay,” she says, and lets him tug her outside, hitting the pavement and walking to his car, fingers light around her wrist, and suddenly her temperature skyrockets, and she pulls her wrist from his grip. “You don’t have to do this, Ben.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows, unfairly calm, and Devi is reminded again that he will make an amazing lawyer. “Don’t have to do what, Devi?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have to-to let me down easy,” she says, and huffs, dropping her weight against his car and reaching down to slip her heels off, her skin sighing in relief. She loses four inches, and tilts her head up to look at him. </span>
  <b>“If it's yes, let me know, and if it’s no, well… I can go.” </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>“I won't make you,” </b>
  <span>he says, and the taste of rejection rises up on her tongue, sharp and stinging and she feels like her hands are on fire, “you wouldn't have to, anyway.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” she asks, scoffs, “why wouldn't I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because I’m not going to say no,” he whispers, and she feels his hands drop onto her hips and— the parking lot is dark, like the inside of her eyelids, but his eyes are so, so blue— “actually, saying no didn’t even cross my mind.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You like me?” she asks, breathless, and lets her hands drift to his shoulders, every type of tender on the tips of her fingers and in her palms, “like, you really like me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he whispers, like promises kept, and kisses her cheek, lips curving a smile into her chin. She hopes that the imprint burns there. “I’d be an outlaw for your love.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is so strange,” she whispers, in spite of herself, and he laughs. She loves his laugh, the way it curls around her ears like smoke, blurring the lines between her senses and making her feel raw and exposed and alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Strange as the thing I know not,” he quotes, and she snorts, rolling her eyes and shoving his shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you just quote </span>
  <em>
    <span>Much Ado About Nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>at me?” she asks, mock offense. He is smiling, boyish, an entire world in his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he says, light and sweet, like coffee, “I mean, I feel like it's fitting, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes and tilts forward, kissing him hard, because kissing him is multitudes better than admitting that he is right.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you SO much for reading! Leave a kudos if you enjoyed and a comment if you really enjoyed, they make my cat respect me. Thanks! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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